There is Peace
by ShootingStar96
Summary: Tobias Eaton is a farm boy dreaming of becoming someone better than a simple farmer. So when the war against England erupts, he gets his chance. But will the cost of war be too great? A one-shot from the American Revolution.


**A/N: So I know I have not updated any of my stories in a very long time. Would you believe me if I said I was super busy? Instead of telling you all the things I am doing, I am going to get straight to the point. I have a little bit written for each story, but nothing yet to update. But this piece is something I worked on in my English class and I already turned it in and thought I would give you guys something. So enjoy!**

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_**1 March 1776**_

With wide eyes and a bounce in my step, I walk up to the recruiting sergeant sitting at the registration table. He stares at me with intimidating eyes, making me feel smaller than the sixteen year old I am. In spite of this, I keep my head high and wait patiently in line. There are three other men in front of me, and they all have to be less than twenty years old.

We all have the same look on our faces, the same drive in our hearts. All my life, I have lived on the family farm. And for the rest of my life I believed that would be my only fate, but this revolution has taken me away from that once engraved path. I will no longer be the son of a farmer, one that will inherit the family farm. No, I am now a part of something bigger—a soldier in the Continental Army.

* * *

**_29 April 1776_**

The only thing that gets the stale bread and corned beef down my throat is the burn of whisky pushing it along. I am no stranger to the clear liquid and its power to turn a month old meal into one even King George III would not mind consuming.

Back at the farm, father would sit down with a bottle after a long day tending the animals and the fields. My mother probably would not approve of me drinking, but there are no mothers here to keep track of us. And no fathers to beat us for ignoring the rules.

I take a seat in front of my tent with my muck of food. There are no tables, no chairs, and no manners in this place, and my neighbor, Zeke, takes full advantage of it. It only takes a few minutes for him to walk over to our tents with his rations of food. He walks with a bit of a limp, but that is only because he is missing a shoe. The other day, a rain storm hit the camp and flooded the place, so now almost all the shoes are by the fire trying to dry.

I look down to my own feet. They are both missing shoes and one foot does not even have a sock on it. It does not trouble Zeke or me as much as it does the others to not have shoes. We both grew up on farms and are used to running around in the mud in just our bare feet.

Zeke sits on the ground next to me and says, "You'd think they'd have some decent food around here. I don't know about you, but this soldier is a growing man."

"Here," I say, tossing the canteen of whisky to him. "It helps improve the taste."

He puts a spoonful of meat into his mouth and takes a gulp of the whisky. He brings the drink down, and says, "Still tastes like cow manure."

We both laugh, and I take my canteen back. Someone comes up next to us and sits down. He looks a few years older than Zeke and I, but he doesn't have the daily rations. Instead, he has some kind of meat that looks only a little better than what Zeke and I have in our hands.

I say, "Where'd you get that?"

The man takes a big bite and replies, "Obviously not the same place you got that excuse for a meal. I made my own meal, in the woods."

He points to the woods outside the camp and reveals a tangle of ropes.

Zeke says, "You caught that? We can do that?"

"I can," the man says with a smirk. "Name's Uriah, from New York."

"I'm Tobias, and this is Zeke; we're both from Pennsylvania," I say. I look down and see that he does not have shoes as well. "So, your shoes at the fire, too?"

"Yeah, but I might keep them there. The soles don't fit my feet and there are holes at the toes. Besides, I'm used to working in bare feet… makes me faster," Uriah says.

I smile to myself and lift my canteen to my face. Right as the metal touches my lips, a boom of thunder cracks in the distance. Moments later, a bolt of lightning strikes the earth. A storm is approaching.

* * *

_**22 August 1776**_

The city is not at all what it's cracked up to be. It is smelly and dirty and the people here are all rats. They do not like us, and we do not like them. They do not share equally in the sacrifices of the war.

I tread quickly with Zeke through the dirty streets of New York, meeting with the rest of the men. The British are here too, and a fight is going to happen—it is inevitable. The glooming sky makes everything around me turn dark, and small rain drops peck my face.

I take a stronger grip on my weapon and pick up my pace. My eyes are scanning for any red, the devil color. Red is the enemy, and every once in a while my eyes catch a patch of the evil color. But the British are at the water, not in the streets…yet.

Suddenly, I hear a boom and I stop. It has begun. And Zeke begins to run towards the sound, and a part of me that gets stronger with each fight chases after him. In seconds, I see smoke and different men running around.

There is hesitation, but it only lasts a moment, because Zeke and I charge toward the fight. The battle around me blurs as my heart rate picks up. I build off of everything happening around me. The men to my sides' fire their guns into the mass of red and stab their bayonets at the air, their inner brutal animal coming out.

And I am one of them.

I don't hear anything, like the world is on mute. But my eyes capture every crisp detail. All the details make the world around me seem fast, like they are happening at a pace that I can't keep up with.

It is not until I feel a body collapse on me that everything slows down. I feel the weight break down on me and when I turn my head, I see Zeke's eyes. I see the light go out of them. I place my hand on his chest and try to cover up the hole in his chest. When I lift my hand up, warm and sticky blood is washed away by the falling rain.

The rain continues to fall down on the dirty city, the blood of those fallen mixing with the filth of the streets. It does not take long for the smoke to clear and the dust to settle, and the real mess is set in front of me. Nothing around me feels real, like it is a dream.

I lost my friend today; I lost a brother.

* * *

_**3 January 1777**_

I never, in all my battles of war, stopped and listened to the sounds around me. Bullets flying, people shouting, canons booming, feet running; it is like a symphony of war. Every second, my fate is unknown and in the hands of a higher force. And every second, another soldier falls victim to the world of spirits. These are the costs of war, right?

What drew me to this life in the first place? I remember a young farmer, dreaming of freedom and the chance to become a part of something bigger, the chance to become someone greater. Yet now, all I feel like is a small piece in a game—a worthless pawn. And for what? Some kind of freedom?

There are sharp pains in my stomach, and I no longer have the strength to stand. I feel myself fall to the ground, only earth catching my failing body.

There is running and shouting all around me, yet all the noises blur into one collective scream. But the scream gets softer and softer, and the sound collapses to a simple buzz. Everything in the corners of my eyes becomes fuzzy, and they all slowly disappear. I look to the sky; it is white and cloudy like an approaching storm. But the white turns to grey, and the grey turns to black.

And there is complete silence.

There is peace.

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**A/N: I hope you guys liked this. It was a research paper turned creative short story. The last part is kind of from FTS. (Who knew that my fanfic would help me out in school.) Anyway, I have my last week of high school ever this next week and hopefully that will help me update my other stories more. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


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